Spying Games
by capitolrebel
Summary: True love changes, but it never really dies. Years later, as Harry falls asleep for good, Ruth tries to find a way back into the light.
1. White Noise

The very first installment of my first ever fic! It will be long and complicated and involve most people. Reviews are hugely and incredibly appreciated. And I own nothing. At all. Sigh.

"Chloe?" The door is ajar, clothes and books are strewn across the hallway, and already Dahlia knows that something is very, very wrong. On a normal day, Chloe Pearce is perhaps the neatest woman she's ever met; having grown up in a home with twenty-two messy other children, it's something Dahlia's always particularly appreciated about her.

Moving into the living room, she calls again. "Chloe? You rang? You said you had-" Dahlia is caught short as she reaches the bedroom. A suitcase is spread open on the bed, crammed with books and clothes and strange memorabilia. Chloe, pale skin flushed, is moving from cupboard to cupboard, slamming doors and murmuring to herself. As Dahlia enters, she looks up and beckons the younger girl over to the bed.

"Dahlia, sit down, I've got some explaining to do."

"Really? You think? Chloe, you can't just leave, there's-"

"My name's not Chloe" says Chloe. "and it's not Pearce, either, and that was a bloody stupid thing to do, but it doesn't matter. And I'm sorry, but I'm going to ask you to do something dangerous for me."

Dahlia's head is reeling. Yes, when your piano teacher rings at 1pm on a school day and asks you to come over, you think it's strange. But they'd always been close, and Chloe had always been strange.

"Dangerous?" she asks instead, clutching the duvet like it's any comfort at all.

Chloe-not-Chloe nods and pulls something tiny out of her jeans pocket, handing it to Dahlia. She's whispering now, though Dahlia's not sure why, it's only the two of them.

"I need you to take this and give it to a man named Harry Pearce. He's the retiring Mi-5 Director General, he lives in London. You give it to no-one but him, understand? Tell him it's from me. There's a note, it explains everything. And Dahlia, this is very important. I need to know I can trust you."

This is going too fast now. All that sticks in Dahlia's head is the name. Harry Pearce. She wonders if they're married, or related, before she remembers that Pearce isn't this woman's real surname. Familiar temper rises in her throat. How does she have the nerve to ask for help after what she's just said?

"This is insane. Like a movie…" Dahlia whispers, but she's cut off by a loud crash in the hallway. Both women turn towards it, and Chloe, holding a finger to her lips, presses Dahlia's fingers closed around the package, reaches into the bedside table, jerks her head towards the balcony and whispers "go".

Dahlia stands and walks towards the balcony on shaky legs. She looks back to see Chloe pulling a gun from the drawer and standing, moving towards the hall. Chloe sees her waiting and once again mouths the word "go" at her. There's another crash and this time Dahlia doesn't hesitate. She vaults the balcony, four floors down, lands awkwardly on her ankle and begins to run just as the first gunshot goes off. She counts three more as she sprints for the forest behind Chloe's house and dimly registers a smart black car parked out front. She stumbles, twice, but somehow drags herself into the trees unnoticed and sits, trembling, fingers still clutching the package, waiting for something.

* * *

The problem with retirement, as Harry saw it, was that after thirty plus years of saving the world, there just didn't seem an awful lot to do; to his eternal shame, he'd actually found himself watching Wheel of Fortune, a programme he'd always viewed as ubiquitous to the old and useless.

Joanna, on one of her increasingly rare visits, had suggested he take a holiday, but the sadness of his dream trip was now almost overwhelming; as he'd told Jo with a painful twinge of memory, it was simply not a trip to take alone. And Jo was perhaps the only person who could have understood the hidden meaning behind his words, understood how heart wrenching it still was for him to spend his days alone.

When he'd thought of retirement, it had always been with her. Harry's plan at age fifty had been to rise to the position of Mi-5 Director General (done), rid the service and the government of Mace and his winged torture monkeys (mostly done, and Jo was carrying on the good fight), cause enough of a stir on departure to raise public awareness (most defintely done) and then buy a small cottage somewhere picturesque, marry Ruth and settle down together. He'd even thought about children, at his age. It was almost laughable. He really was a sad old man, and it was kind of Jo not to point it out more often.

He's glad she's still left. Their friendship is unlikely, a monster borne of time and shared circumstance. Too many people they both loved and lost to forget each other. And they have lost so many people. Tom, Danny, Zoe, Adam, Fiona, Zaf…the list goes on and on, but he refuses to add Ruth's name. To admit that their something wonderful will really never be said. He's not generally a sentimental man, but this, he allows himself.

Harry will love her forever. That's the truth. For all that he tells himself it's natural, that he's just lonely, he knows and Jo knows and probably everyone on earth knows that for him, it's really always been about Ruth. And, he admits to himself as some infernal quiz show starts up again, it always will be.


	2. Mascara Princess

Once the car had gone, Dahlia stood, brushed herself off and checked her pockets. The old house was isolated, so it was possible nobody had heard the shooting, but she still didn't think it was a good idea to stick around.

Tentatively, she walked towards the door, still limping on her injured ankle. Looking at the distance now, she was amazed nothing had broken. She pushed open the door, ignored the rush of déjà vu that settled over her, and headed to Chloe's room.

One man lay, breathing shallowly, on the stairs; another was dead just outside the bedroom door. Chloe lay at the foot of the bed, a faint pulse circulating in her neck. Dahlia reached a shaky hand towards the phone and noticed the gun lying in her limp fingers. Hesitating, she extracted it gingerly, shoved it in her back pocket and then dialled 999.

A woman's voice answered, soft and soothing, and Dahlia struggled not to cry as she repeated the address. Crossing her fingers the ambulance would arrive in time, she stepped over the bodies, glancing at Chloe's half-full suitcase on the bed. She must have thought she had more time, but she'd clearly known someone was coming.

Briefly, Dahlia contemplated handing the package over to the police, letting them deal with it. But, she'd never had a lot of faith in the police. They'd been in her life since she was tiny, always at the home enquiring about some piece of minor theft or vandalism. They'd never seemed overly kind or competent. If Chloe thought the package worth dying for, it should be handled with more care.

When the ambulance arrived eleven minutes later with two police cars, they found only one unconscious body, two dead ones, and a ransacked purse lying on the bed next to a half-empty suitcase. One of the officers, a caring woman named Sarah Thompson, closed the dead men's eyes and bagged the knife before heading back to the station.

* * *

Jo would never let on, but sometimes she hated her job. Adam's job. She always thought of it as his, despite having watched three good agents fill the post in the meantime. When they offered it to her, all she could hear was Angela Wells' nasty, nasal voice ringing in her ears. "A promising young spook, after his job".

The truth was, she'd never really wanted it. She hated the bureaucracy and the responsibility, having to sit and give opinions nobody really wanted to hear. And she hated, most of all, not having someone bigger and stronger to turn to when it all went wrong. Malcolm was still there, of course, pottering about in Gadget Corner like a wizened old Q. In his beard phase she'd even started calling him Dumbledore, which had fallen extremely flat. But after all this time, she keeps expecting Colin to jump out from behind him, looks every night when she leaves for the lights that should still be burning, Ruth's desk and Harry's office.

She missed the old gang. Which was why, without mentioning it to Malcolm or Harry, she'd started her own little private research project, relying on her position and the reverance she got from the younger spooks to hide it from prying eyes. And it was why, at precisely 11.17am, December 15th, a report landed on her desk that she'd never wanted to see.

* * *

"So, as you'll see, our only real option is to halve the resources going into this particular project, and instead divert them to-"

Ros starts as the door is wrenched open, looks up to see Mascara Princess standing there, clutching a folder and looking angry as hell.

"Get out" Jo tells the men around the table. Most of them are superior to her, in rank, experience, or both, but they go anyway and without question.

Joanna Portman is a legend. On the A-team back in the day. Knows Harry Pearce. Involved in the Church case, the Havensworth fallout, the embassy bombings. And there are chinese whispers, even now. They say she was in love with Adam Carter. They say one night, she took a .44, found Leanne Summers and shot her dead. They say you can still see the scars Rupert Church put on her arms, her back, her memory. This is how she commands a status neither her age nor her rank deserves.

Even Ros is a little bit afraid of her now, after what happened with Adam. Jo remembers a time when she was a little bit afriad of Ros.

Ros sure as hell looks scared as she reaches for the file, opens it and takes in the pages of lush, glossy photos, acres of type, cassette tapes, computer discs. It's all well documented. Jo's people are the best.

Neither woman speaks for a good minute and a half. Eventually Ros looks up and says, "Are you going to tell Harry?"

"Yes" Jo replies instantly. He has a right to know; it might keep him alive. She's noticed him looking paler and thinner, recently. Gaunt.

"Don't" Ros murmurs

"Screw you."

Ros smiles, sadly. "Sweetheart, if I thought that'd fix all our problems, I'd have tried it years ago."

Joanna sits down and rolls up her sleeves. As she'd known she would, Ros winces and suddenly looks at the table, at the floor. Even at her eyes.

"I'm going to tell Harry. And then we're going to find her. You're going to stay here and make sure nobody gets in our way, or we won't be responsible for the consequences, understood?"

* * *

Dahlia spends nearly half of the money she took from Chloe's purse in the first hour. She buys new clothes and a bag, picks apart the stitching and buries Chloe's package in the lining. She can't sew it back up, of course, but it still looks fairly inconspicuous.

Feeling slightly safer, she heads for a little used internet café on the edge of town. She sends an e-mail to Mike at the home, to tell him she's staying with Scarlett. He won't like that, but he won't question it. Scarlett was in the home til they were thriteen, she and Dahlia grew up together. And Dahlia is seventeen and responsible; he has younger, rowdier kids to worry about. The next message goes to Scarlett, telling her nothing but what to say if anybody rings. And then, Dahlia sets to finding out about Harry Pearce. She looks at everything; photos, biographies, newspaper articles, until the owner comes and asks her if she'd like another drink, and she realises she's been almost three hours. Grabbing her printouts, she races out the door and down the street.


	3. Sorry for your Loss

Jo tells him that he spoils the cats. He tells her that he's kept them alive for eleven years, he must be doing something right. That's longer than most of his field agents, anyway.

He's feeding them again when she rings with her strange request. Yes, he knows where she means. Of course he remembers how to get there. Can she explain over the phone? No, all right. He'll be there in five minutes.

In many ways, Harry misses his old life, but this is not one of them. Clandestine meetings always felt shifty, dishonest, and far too risky for comfort. Besides which, it's a well known fact that Jo comes to his house on a regular basis, and he's made it quite clear to her that he doesn't want to be involved in spy work. He's not sure what else she could want.

Harry is even more unnerved when she finally arrives, twelve minutes late, dressed in jeans and a Rolling Stones t-shirt. This is partly because of her poor taste in music, but more significantly, it's rare to find her in anything that shows her arms, nowadays.

She doesn't say a word. Just slips the file out from her ridiculously oversized handbag and passes it over.

* * *

Ros is having a very bad day.

It started with that wretched JIC meeting. She and Tim broke up over lunch. No fewer than five major calamities threatened her afternoon. And now the charming Mr Molton is in her office, normally enough to cheer her up, except that he's asking after everyone's favourite Senior Intelligence Officer (or, more precisely, Molton's favourite eye candy) and she doesn't have an answer to give him.

Usually, Ros likes having important people in her office. She's made a reputation for herself, a good one. But she has a weakness for power, for being seen with those who have more than she does.

Molton always stays for a drink. Even this late in the day, she's not bad eye candy herself.

Ros pours and talks at the same time. Drink has a wonderful way of distracting the man, especially poured as now, leaning over, smiling, reaching across…

"On a field op. Someone's cropped up from the olden days. Fairly trivial, but still, you know how sentimental she can get about these things. We've even dragged Harry Pearce out of retirement to have a look at it."

"He's working for you, then? I did wonder…"

She's not really surprised they still have Harry under surveillance. When you leave under that much of a cloud, it follows you for the rest of your life.

"A brilliant man, of course" Molton continues "but…unstable, some might say."

* * *

Jo hasn't seen him like this in years. Eleven, to be exact.

After she gave it to him, he sat on the wall and said nothing for almost an hour. She'd stood and waited and tried not to remember that they last time they'd been at this bridge, they'd been trying desperately to save Ruth before she ran out of time.

Funny how things come around.

She'd sat down next to him, put a comforting hand on his arm.

"Harry?"

When he turns, there's animation in his face, a different set to his jaw.

"Pearce! Look at that, Jo, she called herself Pearce!"

Jo thinks he's missing the point, but she doesn't have the heart to tell him.

"Saint Joseph's, that's twenty minutes from here. It's got to be her, Jo. It's got to."

* * *

"Yes, well, he never really recovered from what your people did to him. But, I'm sure he remains quite capable."

"In a way, that's what worries me. Capable and unhinged isn't the best of combinations. And I wish you'd stop referring to them as my people, Rosalind. They're long gone from my office, I assure you."

Ros sits back. She knows that he knows that she painstakingly removed each and every one of them, at great personal cost. Most of them are dead. Some had families. She never apologises and if she did, she wouldn't. Adam Carter was a good man. So is Harry.

"I do hope we can learn to trust each other. This history of animosity between the services is an outmoded idea, one that should be avoided. I'd like to foster an atmosphere of mutual respect."

My, he does like his words, doesn't he? But his gaze is steady, his grip on her wrist is strong. If Princess is wrong about this, he's going to take them down, make no mistake.

"I assure you, sir, you have no reason not to trust me. If Miss Portman were here, I'm sure she'd tell you the same thing. Sentimentality on her part, nothing more. Trivial, really. Not like the Libyan op over at 6. I don't think I've heard your version of events…"

Ros doesn't apologise. But if she did, Ruth and Harry and Adam would be top of the list.

* * *

They're in the car ten minutes before Jo finally works herself up to breaking the taut, urgent silence that's settled upon him.

"Harry, have you considered what else might be going on?"

His knuckles are white over the steering wheel.

"Else? She's back, Jo, what else is there?"

He's started constantly saying her name all of a sudden. She guesses he had a notion of how this moment might go, that he's reassuring himself it's all according to his grand cosmic plan.

"She's been hiding, and doing it well, for nearly eleven years. Suddenly, she turns up in a local hospital with multiple gunshot wounds. In the house, police found two dead bodies, both belonging to suspected environmental terrorists linked to the Forest Fire extremist group. It's a little bit strange, Harry. And we can't be the only ones who've noticed. Ros is trying to hide it but they'll find out eventually and we still haven't cleared her name, because we can't."


	4. Connect the Dots

_**A heartfelt plea: **I've gotten completely lost with this, which is why it's taking so long to update. I think what I need is a few people to beta/sound out the next few chapters with me, so if anyone would be prepared to HELP ME, drop me a message and I'll be eternally grateful. _

They arrived at Saint Joseph's three minutes later, having broken the laws of both traffic and physics in fairly equal measure. Harry was halfway across the lobby before Jo was even out of the car; they abandoned it parked diagonally across a bay labelled 'for ambulances only'. As far as she was concerned, they saved lives every day; they were the ambulance, in effect.

Their argument in the car had been addressed but not resolved. Harry, determination etched in every line of his features, had snapped at her.

"I'm grateful for the file, Jo, but if you're not with me you might as well get out. I can do this alone, but it'll go faster with your help. It could make all the difference."

She wonders what 'this' refers to. Apparently, he's got a plan beyond just seeing her, but he doesn't feel like sharing it. She idly traces one of the marks on her wrists and thinks about another time, another race against time.

"I'm with you" she whispers, and then, staring out the window "none of us ever gets enough love to be able to just let it go."

* * *

"Did you have a nice time with our charming Mr Molton?"

Ros leans back against the sofa and closes her eyes.

"Fantastic, thanks, Malcolm. Never better."

He sits on the rigidly uncomfortable chair across her office. There's plenty of room on the sofa, but that's Malcolm. Ridiculously chivalrous.

"He's not the only one that's noticed a certain absence, you know."

She stands and grabs her coat from behind the door.

"Come for a walk with me, Malcolm. There's something I need to tell you. Actually, there's something Jo or maybe Harry needs to tell you, but I suppose I'll have to do."

His smile isn't lost on her. "Oh, Ros, never! Neither Harry nor Jo possesses your narrative flair, your rigorous attention to detail, or your rather spectacular vocabulary. I assure you, whatever it is, I'd much rather hear it from you."

* * *

"I need to see…there's a woman, here, she was just brought in…Pearce, a woman named Pearce, gunshot wounds, three of them…" his memory's not what it used to be, and in all his haste, he's forgotten her cursed legend. "Jo? Jo, what's Ru…I mean, what's the first name…"

It's only then he realises Jo isn't actually beside him, and is stopped in the middle of the lobby, gazing spellbound at the tiny wall mounted TV.

* * *

"And you're absolutely sure it's her? No doubt at all? She's really back?"

"I don't know, I only glanced at it. But Princess seemed to think so, and irritating as she is, she does tend to be right. I think she'd have done her research for something as important as this."

They're on the embankment. It's taken thirty-four years, but Malcolm's finally having a secret meeting with a spymaster along the Thames embankment.

"What happens to her now?"

"That depends. Jo was dead set-" he winces at her choice of phrase, but she soldiers on "on telling Harry, and as we all know, he's never been perfectly rational when it comes to his lovely not-quite-ex."

* * *

_"The murders have been described by police as "grotesque and macabre" Tune into our later show for further details. However, we can reveal that Forest Fire, an environmental terrorism group, have taken responsibility for the killings, and have claimed they are only a first step."_

Try as he might, Harry can't force himself to focus on anything but her. The words are a blur, a cipher, indistinguishable.

"Jo, what's her legend? I can't remember."

He expects along with the information a concerned comment about his memory (or lack thereof) but she acts like she can't even hear him.

"It's got to be connected, Harry. It can't just be coincidence. The men they found dead, they were linked to the same group."

Harry doesn't really care. If there's a plot, or a murder, or anything not inkeeping with the white picket fence ethos, they can throw it to Jo and Ros and their very good modern spies, and turn their attention back to patio furniture and weekend breaks for two. Losing Ruth has changed him at a very deep level; realising that for the first time in his life, work hadn't been enough to lose himself in.

Jo turns and shakes herself, like she's just woken up.

"Chloe Amanda Pearce. You go. I need to ring some people."


	5. Broken

_Massive thanks to Laurie and Ethan for nifty beta duty on this. And to everyone who's told me how much they like it. And especially Jada for locking me in until I finished it. It's what friends are for._

Jo makes three phone calls. The first, to Leo, is long.

"At the hospital. Saint Joseph's. No, I'm fine. Listen, I need guards down here. Proper ones, with proper guns, okay? Don't ask. You don't want to know. And I need you to check that Harry managed to lose all his surveillance…yes, Harry Pearce, what do you want, his autograph? No. No, Leo, I was being sarcastic. And dig out all the old Cotterdam files, take another look. Tell them you've got complete clearance from Ros Myers. Also, anything you can find about an environmental terrorism group called Forest Fire; aims, methods, members. Get Caitlin to help you. I don't especially care what she's working on. This is important. Really important, Leo, I mean it. Fine. Bye."

The second, to Ros, is even longer, mostly because Malcolm is in her office with her and keeps trying to join in. Ros stubbornly refuses to put him on conference call, which leads to Jo waiting impatiently and glaring at the startling range of vaguely sick people who keep eyeing up her chair like they're trying to decide if extensive-but-healed scars justify her ownership of it. Eventually she rearranges herself to show off an old bullet wound just above her navel, which seems to be the trump card, and they turn away.

"Ros?"  
"Yes…No, give me the phone…Malcolm!" More whispering at the other end; sounds of a minor scuffle, a grunt from Malcolm and she re-emerges, triumphant.  
"Jo?"  
"Is he all right?"  
"Oh, he'll be fine, he's being a drama queen. What did you want?"  
"I gave Leo clearance to look at the Cotterdam files."  
"Well, pumpkin, when you go to hell in a handbasket, I'll be there with you anyway. Complicity and all that. So it doesn't really matter what clearance you give."  
"How was Molton?"  
"Missed your lovely self something rotten. I kept him adequately distracted. He knows you're working with Harry, but he has no idea what on."  
"Good. Thanks. Try and keep it that way." Jo sighs, frustrated. "I just wish I knew what we were dealing with. None of this makes any _sense_, Ros."  
"If everything made sense, we'd be out of a job. Listen, keep me posted. I'll try and keep the hounds at bay."  
"I'm worried about Harry. He's acting like he's gone stir crazy."  
"Yeah, well, that's love, isn't it?" and Jo wonders why she sounds like she understands. Ros isn't supposed to understand. But then, Ros isn't supposed to have her back, either, and she's been doing a good job so far.  
"I'll ring if there's any news."  
"Likewise. And princess…be careful."

Jo's third phone call is very short.

"Yes. Please. Fine. Bye."

* * *

She doesn't see them coming. Of course she doesn't. It is part of his job to go unnoticed, and he is extremely good at what he does. Two bullets to the forehead, girl drops like a sack of potatoes, dead. She never even saw it coming.

He doesn't know her name. He doesn't need to. All he knows is that she has something his employer wants. He searches her quickly, jeans pockets, jacket, and finds it, buried in the lining of her bag. Amateur mistake. She's made a series of them, most significantly believing that she would be safer in back alleys where nobody could see her. But then, she's only a child, caught in things she cannot possibly have understood.

In her bag, alongside the package and all the normal things (purse, keys, lipgloss, mobile phone), a sheaf of papers. Harry Pearce. So, they have a target.

He unfolds the note, wrapped around a tiny chip, no bigger than his thumbnail. He's not curious; just gathering more information before he reports back. He reads it twice, satisfies himself that its contents are committed to memory, and watches as the lighter flame flickers towards it, trapping one corner and racing across the page, breaking the words into dust.

* * *

"I'm working on this."  
He shrugs. "Apparently, not anymore. Jo seemed fairly insistent. Said it was important."  
"And African terrorists threatening to blow up most of Manchester isn't?"

He shrugs again. Leo is naturally twitchy; in stressful situations, the problem seems to intensify. There's nothing else he can say, anyway; he knew that Caitlin would kick up a fuss about Jo's request, and he also knows that in thirty seconds she'll finish ranting and start following Jo's every command to the letter.

True to form, by the time he's managed to refocus she's already on her way to the pods.  
"Leo, come on! There's got to be something on Cotterdam in the internal archives. Of course, we'd need clearance…"  
He catches up and hands her her coat. "We've got it. Ros Myers."  
She raises her brows and steps into a pod.  
"Clearance from the dragon lady? Must be important, then."

* * *

"Don't you ever get tired?"  
Malcolm sets the steaming cup down beside her.  
"I get eight hours' sleep. Unlike some."  
"No, I mean…tired of life."  
"Someone's in a deep mood today."

She tilts her head towards him and gestures next to her on the sofa. He knows it annoys her when he chooses to sit in the chair, but proximity makes it difficult to concentrate.

"I enjoy life, Ros. I believe it's better than the alternative. And there are so many pleasures to be had, even in our line of work."

"Jo thinks Harry's going mental. Stress, anxiety, loneliness. Seeing Ruth or not seeing Ruth, whichever. Look at Harry, Malcolm. Such a brilliant man, so utterly broken. It's not right. Look at _Jo_, come to that. She was never cut out for this. She should have been some pretty little journalist, married with two kids."

"And you, Ros? What should you have been?"

She doesn't answer. Still, he hopes she'll think about it.

"Neither of us would be alive if it wasn't for Jo. Whatever she should have been, I'm entirely grateful that she's not. And I'd never write Harry off like that, either. I dare say he's not entirely broken just yet."

* * *

Without boots and coats and flowing skirts, she really is tiny. It's possible she's lost weight, though his memory plays tricks these days. Her hair is longer, and it makes her look younger or older depending on the light.

Harry catalogues these differences like they mean anything at all, to stop himself from focusing on the fundamental sameness of her; she's still Ruth, still his, small hands and delicate wrists and tiny shoulders, knobbled collarbones, pale radiant skin, long lashes and button nose and full lips. They are together in this white room, only ten minutes' walk from their bit of dock, and it feels claustrophobic even though it's only the two of them.

Jo's security people are hovering round the door and outside. Harry mentally berates himself for his own lack of focus. Still, she doesn't seem to mind; she'd dropped in with coffee and soup just after the guards had arrived, informing him that she'd got her best people working on 'Ruth's case'. He wasn't sure what she meant, exactly (Cotterdam, the shooting, the Forest Fire murders?) but he couldn't tear himself away from Ruth to check. She'd seemed slightly strange, too, off colour, but again he was having trouble concentrating with Ruth so close, so very tangible after all this time.

He takes her hand. Storybook fantasies have become common ground (they're all he's had) but this time, it seems almost real. He envisages her fingers twitching, eyelids fluttering, beautiful grey eyes opening and voice whispering his name. It's possible, he tells himself. She's here; all she has to do is wake up.

"Ruth" he whispers, and realises her wounded mind might not recognise the name. "Ruth, Chloe, my love, come back to me. Please."


End file.
